


Summer of 89'

by UnholyHelbig



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, F/F, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-01-27 02:36:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21384682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnholyHelbig/pseuds/UnholyHelbig
Summary: It’s been thirteen years since the inevitable tragedy at Camp Beaverbrook. The world seems to move on with each passing moment, but to the four girls forever trapped with the memories of that summer in 1989, the horrors are just beginning.[The sequel to Camp Beaverbrook]
Relationships: Chloe Beale & Beca Mitchell, Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell, Emily Junk & Aubrey Posen, Emily Junk/Aubrey Posen
Comments: 51
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**[A/N:** **Before anything else is said, I just want to give you guys another huge thank you. I have never put so much effort into a series before and I genuinely appreciate every single comment and interaction that you guys provide. Hopefully, you stick around for the rest of this crazy journey!] **

_JULY, 1989_

**The scent of **burning rubber dominated the cab of the old El Dorado. It was barely noticeable against the dark backdrop of the ever-stretching pine trees. A full moon hung like a hole cut from velvet. It illuminated thick drops of rain that fell against a windshield. Beca found herself wishing for a cigar, a painkiller, something to dull the surroundings that were ever-present. 

The seat belt cut into her skin as Chloe brought the car to a rapid stop. Smoke from the tires rose into the air and unmatching labored breath was the only thing that could be heard aside from the purring engine revving at the sudden halt.

There was a sizable dent in the hood. Beca Mitchell wasn’t one for cars, she had dragged her feet every moment until her father finally forced her to get her own license so he wouldn’t have to haul her everywhere she needed to go. But even she, in the near pitch night, could tell that whatever they had just hit left sizable damage on the left side of the car.

“Shit,” Chloe breathed out. She had her fingers against her throat, separating where the belt had assaulted too fresh wounds. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What the hell was that?” Beca asked.

Her eyes flicked towards the rear-view mirror. Even through the rain, she could see a dark figure curled into itself on the ground. A deer, maybe. She considered herself lucky in this moment. Two antlers could be piercing the seat on either side of her neck- instead, all she had was whiplash and an obnoxiously fast heartbeat. A relief short-lived.

Chloe started to unbuckle her seatbelt, the engine still running. “What the fuck are you doing, dude?” Beca asked, shoving the lock back into place and holding it there. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Guys, we have to keep driving.” Aubrey’s timid voice came from the backseat. Her fingers were shaking and numb, covered in blood that wasn’t hers. She did her best to keep Emily awake, the younger camper staring blankly at the ceiling of the old car. Her breathing so soft and barely there. Beca was tempted to hold a mirror against her lips, just to watch it fog. “I don’t- she doesn’t have much time and the nearest hospital is still seventeen miles away. _Please._”

Chloe stopped glaring at Beca, those sharpened blue eyes focusing instead on the mirror and the heap that bled freshly against asphalt, only to wash away with the present storm. She moved her hands from the buckle to the ribbed steering wheel and white-knuckled it. “That was a person.”

“You don’t know that, Chloe,” Aubrey said. “Who the hell is out in the middle of nowhere like this?”

“We are.” She responded coolly “I’m getting out and checking.”

“Not alone-“ Beca protested.

Aubrey’s annoyance turned to outright frustration as she narrowed her green eyes in the innate moonlight. She ran her bloodied fingers lightly at Emily’s temple. Long ago having moved hair from her stare. Now it was an act of comfort, something to distract from the cold numb feeling that Beca couldn’t shake since the lake. Like she held the sun in her hands and Emily needed that light to hang onto in order to make it, to survive.

“Neither of you are going anywhere. Chloe if you step out of this car, I won’t hesitate to leave you on the side of the road, are we clear? Emily is _dying. _She needs to get to a hospital now and I won’t let her die in my arms because of your stubbornness to just drive.”

Chloe swallowed the thick feeling in her throat and looked back at Beca. The girl's own hands clenching the dashboard with anticipation to flip it open and light one of those gold-wrapped cigars. Wilkens probably died with them on him, just like his gun. Her palm still burned.

“Drive.”

It was a simple word, but it let Chloe release the hold on the brake. The car creaking back to life before she applied pressure to the gas. The tires turned more than once on the wet pavement before finally, the little black mass in the center of the road grew smaller and smaller. Beca pretended not to notice the tears streaming down Chloe’s reddened cheeks as she struggled to keep her own in check.

Her heart didn’t’ stop pounding until the road signs started to mention civilization. Norton Falls. It had a population of 1200 in total and was practically dwarfed by the city another 80 miles away. Beca remembers a fall festival that her parents brought her to a few years before their divorce.

The streets were lined with houses painted different colors and the mailboxes had prominent last names scrawled across in permanent paint. She faintly remembers the scent of kettle corn and the warm sun that countered the bitter October breeze. The way her mother told her that she would never see trees change like this in the city. The way they both laughed at stupid kitten face paint and cracked pumpkin carving contests.

Norton Falls looked different at night.

Its roads stretched on endlessly, streetlamps were staggered, and any hope of summer was starting to fade out into the beginning of a school year. Cars were parked and collecting frost, porch lights were shut off completely. The wind howled as Chloe slowed slightly to match the speed limit exiting the highway, though not too much. 

There was a food joint that looked like it had sprung out of nowhere. A small diner with green neon lights to attract passing and tired drivers. The sign read Starlight Diner and had an all too tacky lit up star with a pink path behind it. A few blocks later, a taco place that had just gone dark, and next to that a 24-hour ATM.

Beca watched as the different landmarks passed, noticing the blue signs for the hospital that Chloe seemed to follow numbly. Aubrey had quieted in the backseat, not saying a word as they finally rolled up the quaint building- it was smaller than the one at home, lit up like a Christmas tree and almost blinding compared to the rest of the dead town.

She exited the car first before it even rolled to a stop in the medical bay. Beca felt like she forgot how to walk like everything was numb and her lungs were still submerged in murky lake water. The door hissed as it creaked open.

It was a quaint waiting room, nearly empty aside from a woman wrapped up in a few jackets as she coughed into a cloth towel. A man that was holding his bleeding thumb and his son carrying a manual for a nail gun. She ignored both of them as her wet shoes squeaked against the floor. 

A stocky woman sat behind a counter that was painted puke green. Her scrubs were an abrasive shade of turquoise and she hunched behind her computer. Not bothered by the sound of someone approaching.

“Fill out these forms and a doctor will be right with you.” She shoved a clipboard across the counter. The woman didn’t’ look up from her screen. She was protected by a glass window. Beca didn’t’ know what she would do if she wasn’t. “Pens in the bucket.”

“I don’t have time for that.” Beca placed her hands on the counter “My friend is hurt and she’s dying.”

“Yeah, so is everyone else in the waiting room. Fill out the forms. A doctor will be right with you.”

Beca let out a distant sigh, glancing around at the two other people sitting in the tacky patterned chairs. She grasped the clipboard, lifting it slightly off the desk before slamming it back down with force strong enough to create a gun-shot pop. Her fingers shook at the sound, but the woman with the ghostly eyes snapped her attention to the girl. She leaned back in her chair, taking in the drowned mess of muck and blood that she was.

Her voice was hushed. “Someone tried to drown me tonight, lady. My friend is in the backseat of a car bleeding to death because a psycho bitch with daddy issues tried to kill her with a… a makeshift bomb in a watershed. I will _not _be stopped by a woman with a god complex who hates her life more than she hates her job.” She took a steadying breath. “Get me a doctor before I walk through those doors and get one myself.”

“What’s the problem here?”

Beca was met with another bout of forest green. A stoic woman who looked like she was fresh out of med school. Her auburn hair was thrown into a messy bun and a white lab coat was draped over her arm. In her other hand was a brown sacked lunch, Beca supposed. Her stomach clenched at the thought of food. Even the simple promise of a bologna sandwich on wonder bread was enough to stir the murky water that she was she had swallowed. 

“Dr. Saxe, everything is fine.” The woman behind the desk stood, recollecting herself.

“No, it’s not.” Beca turned completely. “My friends hurt, she's in the backseat of a car and bleeding out-“

The doctor, Doctor Saxe, from what Beca could collect, set her items on the counter before walking towards the sliding glass doors that opened to the parking lot and the humming El Dorado. “Lead me to her. I can help.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so clearly there is a super significant time jump in this chapter- and honestly, it's one of my favorite that I've ever written for this little universe! So, that being said, I would love to hear your thoughts on Aubrey and where she is now!

_Present Day_

**Aubrey Posen’s heels** were muffled against the carpeted hallway. They didn’t carry the same power that she craved so meaninglessly. The kind that made people aware of her presence. No, that was reserved for long corridors with wood floors. The music leading up to the big boom- the person on the other side of the mirror. The one too afraid to leave the dark until someone more vulnerable was in the room.

Now she held her shoulders back and walked with her unripe eyes trained forward towards the door with her name scrawled on a paper and tacked with masking tape. Her perfectly manicured nails were digging little crescents into her pale palms.

“Aubrey that was phenomenal! I’m telling you, the absolute best performance you’ve ever given. The way you answered those questions, just brilliant.” Sidney Jane Taylor moved her hands around frantically as they walked.

“You wrote very specific cue cards,” Aubrey responded flatly, pushing the sleeves of her blazer up to her elbow. She welcomed the cold air. It prickled against her skin, a different sensation from the hot stage lights. “But yes, you’re right, I can read profoundly well.”

Her agent let the comment hang in the air and pulled the door open to the dressing room. She paraded her client into the chair, the mirror in front of them rimmed in white lights. Aubrey thought she looked older, she felt older too. Her bones burning and feet aching from the heels that were nothing more than a power statement.

Sidney hugged her shoulders and stared into her reflection’s eyes, crouching her lean body down next to Aubrey’s. Her hair was jet black, curls deflating after a day on set. Despite her title, she wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans. Her headset had been removed and was around her neck. She didn’t’ need to feed information to Aubrey from here, though she was still in her ear like the demon she resembled.

“Look at yourself, Bree.” Sidney smiled “Look at us. The books, and the conferences, and the sheer perseverance that you possess has all lead to this.”

“Another interview with Nancy?”

“No,” She hissed the word in a sharp whisper “Don’t be naïve, Aubrey. The movie. This is just to put you back in the public eye.”

Right. The movie. Another chapter in her life that she had yet to write.

Sidney had called her in the middle of the night four months ago. Sunrise Studios had begged her agent for the rights to the books that Aubrey had penned. They had hoped for the next big trilogy of films- a new villain to join the reinks of Jason and Freddy. This one, armed with a crossbow and a dangerously vile past.

Aubrey remembers laying in a puddle of her own sweat that night. Her balcony windows were open, and a warm night breeze rushed quickly to dry the moisture on her skin, making her feel tight. A doll trapped within itself. She watched the ceiling for hours until the sun's shadow stretched across it.

“What about the girls?” She asked the next morning at breakfast. There was a feast in front of her, but she didn’t touch a single bite. Sidney shoved a forkful of pancakes into her mouth before quirking an eyebrow.

“What about them?” She countered, pointing the prongs of the fork in Aubrey’s direction. “You haven’t uttered their names in what? Twelve years.”

Aubrey swallowed back the sour taste in her mouth. Had it been that long? She supposed that it had been. She felt like she still knew them, she spoke about them in every interview and had written them into page after page of the manuscript. But when had they become less like people and more like a means to an end? A character in her narrative.

“It’s their lives…” She sounded out, thumbing the knife on the side of her plate. “A book is one thing, they signed those wavers when we were kids. But a movie?”

“Look, Bree” She swallowed down a gulp of pulp-free orange juice “The studios don’t care and frankly, neither should you. They bought rights to _your _book. Doesn’t matter if they object to it or not because it’s not their story anymore. It’s yours.”

That had been months ago, and she had been slowly telling herself that it was okay. A trick that her father taught her-if you believe that it’s right, if you practice that it is, then it will be. Eventually, it will be. And staring into this mirror, with Sidney’s perfume shoving itself down her throat, she believed that maybe it was.

“Right,” Aubrey pulled back a smile and straightened her posture. “We worked hard for this.”

“Exactly! That’s the spirit, the announcement went off without a hitch. Which is why we should celebrate.” Sidney pulled the headset from her neck and frowned “I told them to have champagne ready when we got back. I swear, I’m the only one that knows how to do my job around here.”

She muttered a few things into the microphone before letting out a heaving sigh and walking towards the door.

“Bree, why don’t you take a shower, change into something more comfortable. You’ve had a long day. Guarantee when you get out, I won’t just have alcohol, I’ll have a cake too.”

Aubrey didn’t feel much like either at this point, but she just nodded in agreement. Sometimes it was easier to go along with what Sidney said to get her to relent on the big things. Compliance was key in this industry, and that was something she came to know quite well.

She was alone now, in the large green room that leads to a bathroom with a shower. It reminded Aubrey more of a hotel- one of those fancy ones they stayed at during the first and second book tour that they had just rounded out.

Her muscles did feel tight, tight enough to warrant a warm shower.

Aubrey stood from the uncomfortable makeup chair and walked into the unsettlingly white bathroom. She stripped away the black blazer and then the floral shirt that had sweat stains under the arms. Everything felt like clockwork. Slow and methodic clockwork.

The water washed over her, warm and cold all at once. It had to wake her up, had to make her skin feel like it wasn’t buzzing anymore. Though, the anxiety still ate away at the back of her mind. Aubrey refused to face the showerhead, instead keeping her body positioned to the stark tile wall.

PTSD her therapist called it.

Her father called her insane. At least that’s the word he thrust at her the summer she stayed with him after her freshman year of college. She would almost get all the way into the shower without breaking down into sobs. The feeling of a knife ripping her apart from the inside out would reduce her to a quivering mess on the tub's floor.

Now, after thirteen years, she could shower in a bathroom by herself. But still wouldn’t allow her eyes to face the faucet. Not without feeling that dominating ache in her shoulder. The warmth of blood dripping down into a drain.

Aubrey drew in a sharp breath and snapped the water off in a mere second. She stood cold and shaking for a moment, watching the rest of the water slide down the pipes as her hair moved down her back. She blindly reached for a towel and reveled in the warmth it created. Her feet left darkened marks on the bathmat.

Aubrey padded softly on the white tile and then back onto the carpet that ran through the main green room. She headed straight for her duffel bag, rooting around for a moment in the clothes. She found what she needed, a ratty old t-shirt from college and a pair of sweatpants. Comfort.

Her emerald eyes lifted to the mirrors that lined the wall, their white light shining against the entirety of the room and the metal bucket that was now resting on the table with a bottle of champagne. A note from Sidney was signed in cursive and marked with a little smiley face. She must be working on that cake.

Ice ran through Aubrey’s veins in a moment, blood rushing past her ears as her heartbeat found her throat. She could see her reflection right behind the crimson red words smeared against the glass in a broken script. She clenched the towel closer to her chest, tears blurring the statement.

_I know what you did, Summer of 89’. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we're back for another week and another look at where the girls are now. I'm trying to stick to a solid posting schedule of every Sunday. which means, I'm going to take the time to wish everyone who celebrates it, a happy Thanksgiving! I hope you guys have a good holiday and let me know what you think of where Chloe has ended up after 13 years.

**There was an** undertone of bleach in the air. Something that didn’t hit Chloe the second she walked through the sliding doors. Instead, it was gradual. Creeping up the back of her throat and clouding her lungs until she couldn’t recognize it at all. It used to bother her, the scent of bleach.

Everything was too clean in the hospital for her liking. She had grown up in a home that wasn’t afraid to get dirty. Mud was tracked against the kitchen floor when a good heaping of rain was dumped on their ranch property. The tub was rimmed with a line of black after every bath as a child- because dirt was natural. Messes were natural, or at least they were when it was anywhere but here.

Chloe closed her umbrella, letting the stray drops of water slide down her hand and past the cuff of her jacket until the cold streak touched her elbow. She dug her boots into the black mat right past the doors, leaving behind the very dirt she was self-conscious enough not to leave tracked against the Hospital lobby.

It was relatively desolate considering the full moon hung in the sky like a golden ornament on a Douglas fir. It wasn’t peak flu season, and Chloe thanked the higher powers for that. But that didn’t’ stop everyone from faking coughing fits and begging her to test for a fever one more time because their temperature was sure to have spiked over the last two minutes.

She punched the code into the worn-down pad next to the second set of doors and was met with another long white corridor lined with shy wooden doors. The sound of machines whirring, and IV’s dripping carried on like white noise. She walked with confidence.

“Doctor-“The voice echoed against the walls as one of her latest interns trotted up next to her. Her magenta scrubs stuck out like a beacon in a white sea. She quickly flipped the metal chart back to reveal a paper. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was wondering if you could take a look at the medications given to 207. Doesn’t seem right to me.”

She was annoyed. She would have been annoyed at anyone at this moment, reminding her of a job she kept for one summer at a sandwich shop. Customers came so frequently that that same disgruntled edge of dissatisfaction pulled at her. Still, she nodded and glanced at the chart.

Sixty-four-year-old Damion Coves. A repeat offender of the Emergency room, once or twice a month if Chloe could remember. A strong reason she had given the patient to her Intern in the first place. Sometimes it was a broken arm, but most of the time it was in relation to a back problem he refused to fix. He had worked as a fisherman for countless years, hauling product and gutting sea life.

“Hydrocodone and acetaminophen?” Chloe mumbled, as she furrowed her brow and looked up at the doe-eyed girl.

“Yes, Ma’am. He’s been complaining about the pain escalating. Demerol hasn’t done the job in quite some time and by the looks of it, he’s refusing the surgery.”

Chloe hummed, “He doesn’t like his odds against the possibility of being paralyzed from the waist down. Switch these to Propoxyphene. Damion Coves is an alcoholic, the second you pump him full of those and send him on his way he’ll stumble off the docks.” She shoved the metal chart back into her hands “Get to know your patient. You can smell the bourbon on his breath from a mile away.” 

She continued her journey until she made it to her office. It was three corridors deep, surrounded by cool cement and filled with old copy boxes that had case files. Ways she would teach her interns with gallbladder removals and that one stomach-churning patient who was almost sawed in half at the old mill.

Chloe breathed in the musty scent and flicked on the light. Her desk was the only clear thing about the office- despite her working here for four years, having the place all to herself. There was one picture of her girls hidden away in the bottom compartment of her filing cabinet. Her computer was covered in yellow sticky notes, and a nametag rested in the center of the surface.

“_Ilene_” She scoffed before pulling on the white coat slung over the chair and clipping the metal to the collar.

Her rounds started in a few minutes, she left the stuffy office and walked back into the sterilized hallway. She made it the nurse’s desk without another interruption and grabbed the stack of metal charts left by the attending on first shift.

“How are you tonight, Chloe?” her breath caught, she was halfway through the notes on Mrs. Robinson’s chart. She silently cursed herself for not hearing the heels against the linoleum. “Ilene.”

She drew in a deep breath, “Oh, absolutely fantastic, love these overnights.”

“fewer people.”

Chief Mary Saxe leaned against the counter next to Chloe, a smug look on her face. She had pulled her hair from the usual bun and let the curls move over her shoulders in waves. She was graying but in the most flawless way possible. Her jacket was pressed and her shirt was tucked in with professionalism despite the ungodly hour.

She had a point. It was quiet at night, visiting hours had faded away to nothing and the only people Chloe had to deal with were those listed in the charts, and whoever found themselves in the ER with appendicitis or a fever too high to register.

The two of them started walking towards the front of the corridor again, a round of silence plaguing them both before Chloe spoke. “You don’t have to babysit me, I’m fine.”

“I’m going to pretend I believe you.” She stalled before grasping Chloe’s elbow and bringing her to a halt. “I’ve known you for a hell of a long time, practically watched you grow up. You always get weird around today.”

Chloe swallowed roughly “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m here to do my job. Save lives and kick ass. Your motto, remember?”

“No, yes, I remember just. I’m speaking to you as a friend, not a colleague here. If you need to leave, I understand.”

“And I’m telling you as your friend, I’m _okay. _In fact, I would rather be around other people then shut in my room binge-watching the bachelor with a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream. So, can we please get on with rounds and just drop this?”

Doctor Saxe stared at her for a few moments, trying to figure out if Chloe was being genuine or not. She eventually decided that it didn’t matter if she was. Both of them continued on their way and made it to the first patient behind curtain number one.

It always felt like a game show to her. She never knew what would be behind the thin veil of plastic. Of course, she could always look at the chart before she went in. But that would take the fun and surprise out of it all.

The same intern that had approached her earlier about Damion seemed to have done all the heavy lifting. The little boy that sat on the bed directed his strained attention. His hair was adhered to his head with rainwater and mud. His arm was being placed carefully into a splint, and his mother was pacing a hole into the linoleum.

She stopped mid-stride and turned her hawked expression to the two doctors. “oh thank god, this girl looks too young to be a doctor.”

“Ma’am, I assure you, Stephanie has gone through all four years of medical school.” Chloe said slowly “And she’s doing a fantastic job. Mind telling me how this happened?”

She quickly forgot her anger towards the doctor, switching the string of her own son instead. “I told him not to go outside. Said that there was a storm coming and it was best to stay out of that old treehouse of his. But he never listens. The wood got too slick and he fell, broke his arm.”

She nodded and Doctor Saxe watched the situation unfold. She stayed silent, keeping a lingering eye on Chloe more than anything. Her arms were crossed and Chloe minded herself, directing her next questions towards where the kid sat and kicking his feet.

“Anything else hurt, little man?”

“Nothing does.” The mother answered in a clipped tone instead. Cutting off her son completely.

Doctor Saxe capped her hands together once and boasted a smile. “Okay! Stephanie, ma’am, why don’t’ we go out into the hallway to discuss how to take care of that cast. I know it’ll be hard to keep it dry in this weather- but we’re going to show you how.”

Chloe mouthed a thinly veiled ‘thank you’ as the woman and her intern cleared the room completely so she could do the rest of the exam. She slid on violet gloves and pulled a stool over to the young boy. He seemed comfortable, if not sleepy from today’s events. There was a thin line of blood on his chin and another on his forehead.

“Did you hit your head at all, when you fell?”

He gestured no “I don’t think so, I heard my arm break. Johnny broke his arm at the ice rink two years ago and it sounded the exact same. I didn’t think it would hurt that bad.”

“Oh?” Chloe gave him a smile, gently getting a better look at the lacerations “Yeah, it’s not the greatest feeling in the world but you know what? You’re very brave for getting through it. And look at that amazing cast you have! Is blue your favorite color?”

“Yes! And look, someone already signed it!”

Chloe lifted her eyebrows. Stephanie had just been finishing it up when they walked into the room. His mother must have worked fast, maybe even kept a sharpie in her purse wedged between some hard candies and wet wipes.

“see.”

Dread owned Chloe Beale in that moment. Directed all of her thawed blood to rush past her ears and her vision to fog up. She stared at the words scribbled in silver sharpie against the polymer-coated cast. The lettering was neat and precise, too well thought out to be ignored. Too concrete to be imagined.

_Summer of 89, remember? _


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure people who are actually reading this have some curiosity as to where Beca ended up after all of these years! Well, here you go. And let me know what you guys are thinking so far. Cheers!

**Declan Wolfe had** been the bane of Beca Mitchell's existence for three whole years before her resolve finally began to crack in the slightest. That’s 1,095 days and 26,280 hours of her life she would never get back- but she wasn’t counting. Declan had one of those faces that would just _sell _whatever someone wasn’t in the market for.

He had once launched into a story about his foray into the door to door salesmen industry during their lunch hour. Buzzing like a gnat trapped against a windowpane. Beca went from wanting to gently open it to the summer air, to wishing she had a human-sized fly swatter dipped in bug spray.

But his stupid peppered hair and somber look had grown on her. The way he would listen intently when she spoke, the way he would only wear suits despite both of them taking up employment in a radio station where no one would see his efforts. The way he searched for the strange and other-worldly, just like her.

Declan Wolfe wasn’t so horrible. Not after he got her roses for her birthday and split a cheesecake with her when his wife had to leave for a work emergency, catching the nice flight from Maine to Tulsa. She even found herself picking him up coffee for their ungodly hours in the office. 

“Right, I’m not completely dismissing the idea,” He said from his seat across the small table. The _On-Air _sign shaded his features in a bloody red. “I’m just saying that it’s human instinct to look away from something like that. The movie was unrealistic.”

“Oh, I beg to differ. Haven’t you ever been stuck in traffic after an accident? Half of the reason you can’t get to work is because they’re cleaning up the scene, the other is because all the drivers roll down their window in morbid curiosity.”

“You’re acting as if you’ve never covered your eyes during a horror movie.”

Beca leaned back in her seat, playing with the cord to the headphones strapped around her neck. This studio was quaint- a small round table that housed their equipment and two laptops to look up information in a matter of seconds. There was a glass window leading to the two producers that alternated out depending on the day. Alec Wexler gave her the signal to keep talking through the glass.

“When you go into a horror movie, you expect to get scared. That’s fun. When you see a fire truck whizzing by on the freeway a part of you wants to chase after it.” Beca countered “It has everything to do with the adrenaline, man.”

Declan laughed and shook his head. The two of them would banter between today’s greatest hits mixed with a splash of earlier decades. The station seemed to like the appeal of co-hosts that didn’t always get along, ones that weren’t afraid to tap into deeper topics while drivers sat bumper to bumper.

“Okay, if you’re so sure of yourself, let's take a few calls. See what Maine’s wonderful residents have to say about that.” He scooted forward and pressed the first button lit among many. Each phone line labeled with masking tape and most blinking rapidly. “You’re on with MER9, what’s your name?”

Beca tended to hold her breath during the first call. They had an intern from the nearby college screen the callers, even give them a little sheet with general information on it before they were greenlit. It was to avoid incidences- a system they refined greatly after Beca was hired as a co-host.

She had crawled into her car after her first day, drove the nearest parking lot, and cried until her throat was raw and she had nothing more to give. She could still feel the grooves of the steering wheel and the way the frigid air of her hometown snuck through a cracked window. All of her regretted flying back across the country at that moment. After the countless calls branding her a killer, asking if she had any remorse.

Four years later and her palms still sweat profusely when Declan pressed that little button next to line one.

“Hi, my names Jenny,” She said politely a part of Beca relaxing instantly. “And I just wanted to say, I agree with Beca on this one.”

“Oh, I like you already.”

“People want to know what’s going on in the world, or just on their street, ya know? That’s why we have news coverage of stuff like this and reporters that nearly kill themselves to get the next story. Which is why they make movies about it too”

Beca smiled triumphantly at Declan “Alright, thank you so much for your clearly correct answer, Jenny. I think it’s time we hear from another caller?”

She pressed the button for line two, settling into the routine they did every morning between the greatest pop and rock hits that the world had to offer. She had gotten used to the early call times and the scent of popcorn coming from the office kitchen, despite the fact that day had barely broken.

“Uh yeah,” A male voice, deep and scratchy filled the line. “I actually have a question for Beca.”

Declan lifted an eyebrow “Go right ahead.”

There was a silence that took over the studio, Beca casting a wary glance towards Alec. The producer simply shrugged and adjusted his headset, not bothering to tell her to switch the lines or cut to something different completely. Instead, they stared at each other and he lilted his head to the side.

“You were basically in a horror movie yourself, weren’t you?”

The man sitting across from her opened his mouth to speak but bit his tongue and watched her carefully. It wasn’t a statement outright claiming she had done something; not like the messages written on her car in spray paint, or the letters from listeners demanding that she was terminated. It was haunting and slow, curiosity at the crumpled-up cars on the side of the road.

“I… suppose so, yes.” She shifted, “That was a long time ago.”

“Thirteen years this Saturday.”

Beca struggled to laugh it off. “As I said, a long time. But that doesn’t’ change my stance on the topic. Stuff like that sells, it’s human nature to flock towards the unknown. Why do you think I wake up at four am every weekday? It has nothing to do with bigfoot sightings, I can tell you that much.”

“Do you remember what you did that night?”

“Ah,” Her attempt at steering the conversation away from her past had failed miserably, and Declan turned towards their producer with a strained look on his face. The producer wasn’t looking up, instead, he was scribbling something down on a piece of notebook paper. “That’s something that’s hard to forget.”

Alec slammed his message against the window. _Keep him on the line. Tracking. _

That’s just what Beca needed, another restraining order. It would have been easier to just hang up, to pass this off as someone else who made her whole entire body feel numb like black water was once again filling her lungs and clouding her vision. Like the muck of a lake was crawling between her toes and the salty taste of rancid water coated her tongue. She swallowed.

“How could someone do something like that?” He asked, voice raspy.

“Out of self-defense.” Declan answered automatically “She was seventeen. She did exactly what she thought was right. She got out of there. You all know the story by now, God it’s certainly written in a million different ways. She didn’t kill anyone.”

She didn’t’ know how many times she had to hear those four words. She had fired a gun, she had felt the kickback in her wrist. She had watched the blood spill against loose dirt. But in the end, she hadn’t taken a life. Not at that camp. She almost lost her own.

“Maybe not herself.” The man spoke coolly “But doing nothing is doing something.”

The line went dead then, and Beca shoved the headphones down to her neck as she moved away from the microphone and drew in a cold breath. Declan stumbled through another awkward statement before flipping on the music, followed by a string of commercials that would give Beca more time.

Alec burst through the doors, having removed his own headset. He looked frazzled, blonde hair falling into his eyes as he crouched down in front of Beca. The _On-Air _sign buzzed against the side of his features like the wrong side of the sun.

“Hey, you alright? That dude was just some fuckin creep. I don’t even know how he got through the interns.”

“They're interns, that’s why.” Declan proclaimed as he paced against the small space, avoiding the table. “I want all of them fired. Replaced. Whatever.”

“No,” Beca drew in a shaky breath, putting her hand on Alec’s. “It’s okay. It was a mistake I’m sure.”

Alec watched her carefully as she excused herself to get some air. The damp morning wind drawing in from the nearby docks. A funny place to put a radio station. She could smell the murky water and hear the seagulls searching for their morning meals. The light just peeking over the horizon, a blue hue filling the air.

Beca needed a cigarette.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... at least she's alive?? Either way, let me know what you guys think!

**There were peanuts** crushed against the floor by the soles of old boots with worn rubber and the stench of the sea. They had little crystal bowls on the center of each table- people splitting the nut between their fingers and throwing the debris to the textured cement. Emily found it satisfying- the struggled crunch they provided when she walked across the floor to the bar.

She breathed in the mix of salt and cigar smoke and it burned her lungs. Stung her throat. She reached for the frosty bottle of house-made beer and took three even gulps to quell the fire. Emily was perched at the end of the bar in her usual spot, her eyes trained on the busted television that hung above the rows of half-filled glass bottles.

The Rusted Hook sat at the end of a large row of owned docks, breaking the fishing world away from the rest of Maine. The cute little cafés and the guided tours that led wide-eyed visitors right past the iron fence of Stephen King's house. Chapels stretched to the sky and canals ran past small businesses. Emily had grown to despise it all.

Instead, she sat in an old bar that was breaking apart at the seams. It had two discolored pool tables and a jukebox that only worked if you hit the left side of it a few times with the base of your palm. Its floors were filthy but the beer was cheap- and the peanuts were just a bonus that Emily often left untouched. 

Rafael wordlessly switched out Emily’s drink for another one and she listened to the satisfying sound of glass falling on top of other discarded bottles. He would add it to her tab and give her a lengthy receipt at the end of the month that she had no trouble forking up the money for.

She had been given a lot of it after that Summer when she was a mere teenager.

The lawyer had perched himself right by the window of her hospital room. The blinds were peaked open, leading to a silver snow hallway with stock photos of flowers and a mother facing the sun with her fingers on her stomach- she was expecting, Emily had assumed. He had barely waited for them to slide the breathing tube from her throat.

It was sore and she swallowed a couple of times while he talked to her, while he laid a large packet that looked like an instruction manual on the table pulled across her lap. It was a coverup, something the local police department wanted to get out of the way before the dismissal of charges. He looked like a fox with frosty tipped hair and glasses that went too far down his nose in a pointless notation.

“It’s nothing too serious, Emily, my dear.” The term sent shivers down her spine. “We just want to make sure this isn’t a bigger deal for you than it already has been. A way for you to forget all of this ever happened.”

That part made her sick, she remembers, the way it was so e_asy _to just forget. Forget that she had taken a blood-washed zippo lighter and thrown it blindly onto a human. A human that had done anything in her power to end them all for the fun of it- but a human regardless.

A soul that was damned because of her. One with a family and a dog at home- something Stacie had shown her one day, the picture of the Shepard tucked into the corner of her mirror.

The point was, Emily couldn’t’ forget but she signed anyway because maybe she could afford a therapist that could help her through what she couldn’t’ understand completely. Someone, she wouldn’t be so inclined to push away.

She had seen Doctor Iger for three whole years before she realized she wasn’t getting her sums of money worth and put the rest of her reward into a savings account. It collected dust, rotted away in a safety deposit box until she bought a boat four years ago, fixed it up, and only came here for drinks. Drinks with a shared silence that Raphael provided.

“Emily,” he spoke, she had been glaring at the hand-drawn logo on the side of the glass. She frowned and looked up at him. He nodded in solace towards that busted television that played on an endless loop of football highlights and news. “Want me to turn it up?”

Did she? Aubrey Posen was sitting comfortably in a plush chair across from a news anchor with dyed platinum blonde hair and a tight dress that made her stand out against the blue screens behind them. The lights shaded their features and a headline that moved across the bottom of the screen mentioned a movie adaption.

It made her seethe.

Aubrey fucking Posen was milking this for all it was worth- something Emily respected about the woman at first. But now it was the same old song and dance, a way to profit. A way to keep up with that mansion in the Hills that she was sure to live in by herself. Not by choice, however. Not like Emily.

“Yeah, yes.”

He nodded slowly and a little blue bar moved up a few notches against the fizzing screen. Aubrey laughed and it left a sour taste in Emily’s mouth. It was so fake, every single ounce of it was fabricated and part of that was sad for the younger woman- but the other, larger, part of her still carried that same resentment.

Someone lit a cigarette at the other end of the bar, the plumes of smoke wafted to the ceiling and lingered with their signature black tar scent. Emily breathed it in and dug her nails into the grooved tabletop.

“I’m sure the ordeal is still very trauma-inducing for you." Cowboy barbie asked in her glitchy voice. She even lilted her head to the side like an animal circling it’s slowly dying prey. “Even after all of these years, it can’t be easy to watch them turn it into a film.”

Aubrey hesitated then, her lucid green eyes flicking to her mark, “Well, It’s not terrible, Nancy. I don’t want to say that one gets used to the memories but it is something you learn to live with every single day. We all have coping mechanisms. Mine just happens to be writing, pouring myself into my career.”

“Yours is running up a tab, huh?” The old man who had lit the camel tapped it against the ashtray and let the smoldering wreckage fall like toxic sand. He smelled like alcohol and chewing tobacco.

Emily recognized the fisherman and was accustomed to his brass nature. She wasn’t sure what pain killers they put him on this time, but he moved slowly and methodically. Waiting for her to answer his question. “Well?”

“No,” She snapped back, glaring at the bottle “_Mine _is isolating myself. I don’t like people. Don’t like talking to them.”

He grunted but tipped his glass and let the buttery liquid run past his throat. They switched back to the normal evening news, the commercials for liquidation sales and fast food places dripping with grease.

“That’s not true.” He said “You like talking to people, bein’ apart of life. But something chewed you up and spit you out here, all broken and damaged. You’re afraid of it. Think it’ll suck you back in.”

The old drunken man pushed back his stool and left a twenty on the bar’s sticky top before stubbing out his smoke, she watched him carefully. “Don’t listen to me, though. I’m just an old senseless bastard.”

He was a senseless bastard, that Emily agreed with, so she kept silent, peeling off one corner of the forest green label of the beer. She grimaced, thinking about digging her nails into the spongy earth to keep Aubrey, to keep those prying eyes and sharpened intentions, from dragging her down to her level.

Damien Coves had hobbled away, opening the front door of the tavern and letting in the wet salty air that wafted in from the choppy sea. The jukebox skipped a few times before a rock ballad slowly tittered into the slurred words of Ozzy Osbourne and Lita Ford. She scoffed and swallowed back another helping of alcohol.

Raphael set a frosted glass in front of her, something fruity and blood red. The sour juices from a sliced orange frothed down the side and soaked into a napkin scribbled with blue ink. Emily glanced up at him. “I didn’t order this-“

“That man across the bar did,” He responded, reaching for a stained rag to clear the spot next to her, pocketing the crumpled up twenty. “It’s called a hit and run. Sweet but kind of sour, give it a shot Em. You might like it.”

Emily swallowed thickly and nodded, eyes dark and shaded as she scanned the side of the bar. She knew everyone in here, knew them from the docks or from their unease to pull her onto the dance floor when they had way too much to drink. The fairy lights that were stapled along the ceiling tiles sparkled against her frosty stare.

She lifted the glass slowly, staring down at the words smeared by dripping liquid. _You know what you did _it read like a poorly written book. The protagonist denying the drink, grabbing her coat, and trudging back to her rickety old boat. A shotgun loaded by her bedside table.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, this is a big moment- we've got some interaction. It might not be the nicest as of yet, but they'll get there... maybe. Tell me what you guys think!

**The beach was **shrouded with gray rocks, jagged and encrusted from the salty sea. The waves were an ink-black, crashing forward and pushing bouts of muddy sand further back than it was before. Aubrey found herself yearning for the burning white shore with the crystal-clear waves that the west coast brought- the type of environment that would let you lay out a towel and sunbathe without a care in the world.

This was gloomy and grim. The wind whipped against her face and it stung her lips. She could smell fish and hear the seagulls combing the docks for the dry carcasses that had been discarded earlier in the day. She used to ride her bike down here, used to skid against the wet wood and pay for a lemonade at the long-closed stand that rotted like the rest of the area. 

Aubrey walked with that same confidence that she had when she was heading back from that interview that was broadcasted on live television for the nation to see. This time, however, she regretted the heels that gave her so much inept confidence. Now they got stuck in the grooved wood.

She let out a small yelp of shock as the back of her crème colored shoe shot right through the small hole in the decaying path. Aubrey winced at the new ache in the ball of her ankle before she decided to slide them off entirely. There was no point in damaging them more than she already had.

Aubrey didn’t’ know exactly what she was looking for, or why she had the taxi drop her off right under the iron sign for the wharf. She had begged the production company in charge of the film to give her Emily’s address- had nearly made the poor office assistant wet her pants with her demands.

The only thing she was given was the docks. Three maze-like structures lined with fishing boats an old ice factory, and a couple of businesses where a lighthouse used to stand- sweeping its golden beam out to sea. She could hear yelling from crews finishing up their days, and the creaking of vessels docked for as long as she can remember.

“You look lost!” A gruff voice called out to her.

Aubrey felt her fingers curl deeper around the straps of her shoes. An old woman stood in front of her, dressed in neon yellow waders and a sweat-stained shirt that hung too loose around her curves. Her eyes were kind, though, and she looked at the girl like she was a puppy without a collar.

“Frankly I am,” Aubrey approached, swallowing her pride. “I’m looking for an old friend. Emily Junk.”

She scrunched up her features “Oh? She’s at the very end of the west docks, in a boat called the Fellowship, though, she scratched off most of the paint. She’s rehauled the whole thing by now. That vessel had a hole the size of a suitcase along the side. Real handy, she is.”

The young girl thanked the stranger before counting her steps and figuring which way was west. She felt foolish when she realized they were labeled in different colors and markers that had worn down in the passing storms.

Emily had really fixed up a boat. She supposed it wasn’t out of the girl’s range, and it _had _been thirteen years, almost to the day. They were kids when they first met when she had pressed her tongue against her pulse point and felt it with every inch of her being. But then there was the morbid scent of blood and the hole left in her heart by a lovesick teenager.

The Fellowship was at the very end of the docks like the woman said. A moderately sized boat that had just been coated in a fresh cover of paint. She could see lights strung across the deck, unlit in the afternoon sun. There were a few chairs set up and an empty blue cooler.

And then there was Emily Junk.

She had one knee pinned to the deck, her right hand holding her steady against the side of the boat while she moved in a fluid motion. She was redoing the lettering against the surface with precision unheard of. Her white t-shirt was coated in jet black from grease or the bucket of pigment next to her. Her jeans were equally as dirty and a baseball cap protected her from the sun, strands of hair poking out.

Aubrey didn’t’ know what gave her away, the sound of her feet against the wood, how heavy her breathing had become. Maybe it was the way the blood rushed past her ears, but she highly doubted her old flame could hear that over the seagulls call.

“Are you here to tell me I missed a spot?” Emily asked, finishing out the brushstroke, it curved the end of the ‘p’ in a little loop that Aubrey could only dream of creating.

“No,” She echoed “It looks perfect.”

Emily barely let out a groan as she lifted herself from the side of the boat, letting the brush fall into the abyss of black with an odd plopping sound. She stared at Aubrey for a long time and it made the woman’s body burst into flames under the collar of her shirt- despite the cold breeze.

She smelled like vanilla and a twinge of alcohol, a few tattoos littered the perfect skin against her arms, a compass for the sea and the beginning of a forest. She tried not to stare, tried to pry her eyes from the way Emily’s t-shirt was slightly wet with sweat. That’s not why she was here.

Truth be told she didn’t’ have a real reason. A threatening note written in cherry No.5 lipstick was nothing to lose her cool about. It could have been a fan, as terrible as it sounded, someone who got off on making her blood turn to ice before it slowly thawed out. Still- she had a security guard stand by her front gates, changed all the codes, and booked a ticket to Maine the next day, much to Sidney’s dismay.

“Did you fly three thousand miles to admire the view?” Emily quirked an eyebrow and glanced around at the drab setting. A cloud had settled in front of the sun, making the temperature drop a few notches. “Or did you need me to sign something else over? I’m afraid I don’t have a pen on me.”

“No, I don’t need you to sign anything I just-“She took a steadying second, trying to wrangle her thoughts. Emily was being cold, not unexpected but never seen. Not in person. “Something happened earlier this week.”

“Your brilliant interview. I saw it, you’re really made for that world Bree. Which begs the question as to why you’re on my docks.”

“I’m trying to tell you if you would just listen.” She snapped, squeezing the strap of her shoe into her palm. Emily waited. “Someone wrote me a message on the mirror of my dressing room. I thought it was some prank, but I couldn’t shake that cold feeling of dread.”

Emily’s expression had softened a bit, beautifully under that baseball cap of hers. She scrunched her features together before reaching down and picking up the paint can. “I got one too. On a napkin of all things. Probably some sick fuck who got wind of the movie. It’s like a pissing contest for some of these freaks.”

She turned and set the bucket of paint on the edge of the boat before hoisting herself up with ease like she had a million times before. She towered over Aubrey now, stuck on the falling structure of the docks, the wind blowing through her hair.

“Don’t,” Aubrey said. “Don’t’ pin all of this on me.”

“Oh? And who exactly am I supposed to trace this back to? Quite frankly, Bree, we were all content to forget that night completely, that summer. Hell, I don’t remember anything past those flames. But you just had to immortalize it, huh?”

Aubrey glared at her, a heat pulling at all the wrong places now. It was anger, anger at the young girl for pushing her buttons. She grasped onto the ladder and hoisted herself up onto the deck. Emily took a step back, a bit surprised at her brazen nature.

“It’s not my fault that I decided to make a positive out of all the negatives that destroyed us all when we were just kids, Emily!” She raised her voice. “You had the mercy of not being able to remember,”

Emily took a step closer and Aubrey, despite herself, took an instinctive step back. Her calves hit the cool railing of the boat and she felt a bit unsteady. But even still- her face was calm, and her demeanor was collected. The girl in front of her was taller and she could feel the anger roll off in waves.

“You’re forgetting yourself, Bree. I barely had a pulse when you mowed that guy down on the highway. I’ve had to live with my actions of that night for thirteen years without burying them as you did.”

Aubrey scoffed bitterly, choking on the acid of the statement that hung in the air. “It smells like you’re coping just fine.”

“I am buzzed just enough to numb it all. I can’t say the same was given to you.”

Emily took a step back and grasped a towel from one of the lawn chairs. She moved it over the charcoal paint and smeared it more. Almost as a deliberate action. It was clear that the conversation was over-, and it had gone better than Aubrey expected it would. She wasn’t drenched in blood or the ocean’s water. Instead just a brine of nervous sweat.

“Get off my boat, Aubrey.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So after this chapter, I'm going to take a bit of a hiatus so I can focus on the New Year and a new job that I just got. I hope you have a fantastic Holiday season and enjoy!

Beca breathed deep on the scent of red wine, her own touch melding perfectly with Chloe’s. The matte top of a bottle of Paso Robles had been discarded and half of the pitch liquid had been drained.

Chloe hummed into the kiss, fingers tracing the younger girl’s jawline. It was quite the hello in a half-drunken, completely driven state.

“You heard the broadcast.”

Beca had decided that on the way over here. Her fingers were curled around the steering wheel of her Jeep, and her heart was pounding out of her chest. This was the type of thing that scared Chloe more than anything ever could. That looming feeling of dread that ate away at her- she imagined it had the same effect as the taste of mud laced water coating her tongue. But for Chloe? For Chloe, it would become hard to breathe in another way.

“Yeah, I did.” Chloe swallowed the taste on her tongue and Beca pulled the second bar stool from the granite countertop. “I could imagine all 3,000 of your listeners are back at it again on the forums.”

The wine. It had made her loose and fuzzy in a way that only conjured an onslaught of words. Beca drew in a deep steadying breath. Her mind was focused on the cartoons echoing through the house. She couldn’t figure which one but was thankful for the lack of silence it filled.

“I thought we agreed to stay away from those.”

“No, you decided, and I nodded along for your sake.” She took three even gulps, “guilty pleasure.”

“A guilty pleasure is taking too many bubble baths or drinking half a bottle of Cabernet.” She took the glass, eliciting a glare “Not reading about strangers and their terrible opinions of us.”

It hadn’t been that easy for Beca in the beginning. Not with the articles that would pop up as clickbait among pictures of her family and friends smiling. Stupid shared photos of what their kids would look like if they were any better at photoshop- _You Wouldn’t believe what these girls did _they would read. A stock photo of a lake with fog pluming over still water would accompany the headline.

The bad thing was, Beca would click. She would suffer through the old dial-up internet and wait until the ad-filled article loaded. It would name her, name Chloe and Emily and Aubrey, and it would recite the same old bullshit that every news outlet had. Yet still, she would read. Hold her breath like the ending would be different. Of course, it never was. Two dead- four emerge from flames.

“I know,” Chloe said, her voice was breathy and somewhat sad “I know- I’m sorry it’s just…”

Beca waited patiently. She heard the girls laugh in the living room, following an overexaggerated bang from a wooden hammer or an anvil dropped from a cliff. Chloe ran her tongue over her lips and stared at the pattern on the granite.

“I don’t think that call was a coincidence.” She said.

“what do you mean?”

“I mean, I got a warning too.” Chloe drew in an even breath. “At the hospital the other night. Some kid broke his arm and Beca, God, there was a message on the cast. Like some sort of… of a fucked up horror movie.”

Beca wanted to scoff at that, but she stayed silent. Chloe’s skin was a grayish pale color under the lights and the wine wasn’t doing as much as she hoped it would. She had been distant, had been drawn back and jumpy. Even Beca coming through the back door to not disturb the kids had her frigid, muscles taut.

“Do you think this is revenge?”

“Revenge? Chlo, we were just kids. And we went through something that no one ever should.”

She wanted to reach across the counter and grasp Chloe’s hand, work the absolute freezing clutches of fear from her fingers. But she didn’t. She stayed stoic the heels on her feet aching as they hung off the stool. Even if Beca could will her body to work, it wouldn’t.

“That man who called you was right, Beca. Doing nothing is doing something. We should have stopped, should have gone back-“

“If we had Emily wouldn’t be here.”

Chloe worked her fingers through her mane of crimson hair, “That doesn’t make it right, Beca. We keep telling ourselves that we saved a life, but we traded one and what gives us the right to play God?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Beca raised the glass to her lips, taking a couple of steady sips. The alcohol was hot and burned the back of her throat.

She set it, empty and hollow, on the counter before fishing in her pockets for her cell phone. Chloe reached to pour yet another stream of wine. She scrolled through her contacts, pushing the barstool back. “Hi, Mary?”

“Mary?” Chloe’s voice was a hushed and frantic whisper. She clumsily reached for the phone, unsteady in her sitting position. Beca held her hand out in front of her like a traffic guard helping the elderly cross the street. A defense against a crazed animal, maybe.

“Oh, no, it’s great to hear from you too. It’s been a while- we really need to meet up for lunch again soon.”

Chloe let out a dramatic groan, her high school years in the theatre department as Juliet when she was a mere freshman. Then Annie the next year, though she was almost too tall for the role. She even had a stint as Sophie from Mamma Mia before the superintendant got wind of the production and shut it down completely.

Tonight, her role was as a distressed girlfriend and mother. Tonight it had everything to do with the emphasis on the way she threw her forehead against the granite and slumped her shoulders. Giving up all too easily on wrestling a phone away from Beca.

“Listen, I know you’re beyond busy. But I was wondering if you could take Josie and Corrine to go get some ice cream?”

Chloe moaned again and Beca moved over to the side of the sink, staring past the foggy glass and out to the large backyard littered with toys and a swing set that Beca had set up over the summer. She went to bed that night covered in splinters and her whole entire body was sore, but it was worth it.

Worth it for the way Corrine smiled as she swung her legs higher than ever, little fingers tightened around the plastic-coated chains. Her crystal eyes blinked against the crystal blue sky and her curly rust-colored locks bounced along with her.

“Perfect, you have no idea how much that means to us.”

There was a bout of silence as Beca stared at the inky silhouette of surrounding trees. Far less ominous when the morning light filled the air. Right now, it felt dark and cold, disconnected until its edges warped into a demon with long tendrils and hot poison sliding past snapping jaws.

“Yeah, I know.” Her words weren’t as sharpened, seeping with sadness. “It is, but nothing we can’t handle. Again, thank you so much, we’ll see you in a bit.”

She hung up her phone and placed it on the counter.

“You didn’t have to bother Mary,”

“But the big-time head of surgery loves ice cream more than either of us do.” Beca defended, turning so the small of her back pressed against the edge of the counter. She wanted to cringe away from the cold but stayed in her stalemate. “I think you need to relax.”

“Beca, I don’t-“

“Not that, though I would be honored to help you unwind.” Beca thought the words personally shrunk her high school self. “A genuine night in with no distractions. No radio station, no hospital. Just you, me, and a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream- if that’s what you want.”

Chloe sniffed and stared at the girl in front of her. A woman who had changed magnitudes in the last thirteen years. No longer the dark teenager with too much eyeliner shading her expression, no hero complex allowing her to get knocked against a wooden dock. She still had that fire in her eyes, not quite quelled. But it was tender, something to hover cold fingers over.

“Only if we can have more wine.” Chloe finally decided.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from Hiatus! Though, I do have one question: ya'll bored yet? I promise the action is coming soon... super soon, like next chapter soon.

Beca could smell the electricity in the air. The way it would prickle against her skin as a metallic flavor coated every taste bud she had. The same way she could smell when a large snowstorm was building up the nerve to release its wrath on the greater part of Maine.

The day had barely begun to break, and she struggled to balance both of the coffees she had pilfered from the only shop that dared to open its doors this early in the morning. It burned in sharp contrast against the palm of her hand. She had parked in her designated spot, just like she always did. Walking towards the two glass plated doors with a badge strapped to the rim of her jeans. An inhumane item of clothing at this time of day.

Everything had been the same in her routine for years now. She would wake up, sometimes at her place but usually at Chloe’s. Shower and stop for coffee and come here. The only radio station she knew of that was close enough to the docks to pick up on choppy waves and the desperate call of seagulls.

Today was different. There was a pit in her stomach after the other days call, the type that melted like a ball of ice and made every single vessel in her body slowly frost over. Entirely noticeable and strict. She told herself that it was the call- at least. Told herself that the unmarked car in the parking lot was nothing, if not someone too drunk to stumble home the night before. Even if it was a Wednesday.

She told herself that the man sitting against one of the many metal benches dedicated to past hosts had gotten lost. Was waiting for an interview or a meeting. Even as he stood up and buttoned his suit jacket as she strode closer. She slowed, hesitant.

“Beca Mitchell?” He asked, voice smooth.

He was clean-cut and a good foot taller than her. His soft brown hair was styled with minimal gel and his features were youthful. He looked like someone who had just graduated from college. Experience aged his dark hazel eyes, and she suddenly knew that he was important. More important than an intern who didn’t’ know what door to go into.

“Ah, yeah.” She spoke as if she had never done so before. “Who are you?”

“Oh, sorry, manners. I’m Detective Dan Miller with NFPD, I’m investigating an old hit and run from 13 years back and was wondering if you had time to talk for a moment.” She was silent as she stared blankly at him, cuffed suit jacket with a black tie and all. Pristine. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this. I just got into town and I’m a bit of an enthusiast.”

Beca swallowed thickly “I would love to talk, but I have a super strict schedule to keep.”

“Of course! I totally understand.” He fished clumsily through his pockets and pulled out a little business card. “Give me a call when you have time to chat. I’ll be in town for a little while. Say, you have any recommendations for a place to stay?”

Beca watched him carefully. His charming smile and laid-back nature. A naive detective, maybe. But she had a feeling that Detective Dan Miller knew exactly what he was doing, with his kind facade and even temper.

“Yeah, yes.” She palmed the card, running her fingers over the laminated edge. The neat print and the badge in the corner. “Magnolia Inn on fifth street. They have breakfast.”

“Fantastic.” He beamed, taking a few steps towards the slowly filling parking lot. “I’ll see you around, Beca Mitchell.”

She nodded meekly and watched him make his way towards his vehicle. She hadn’t realized how cold the coffee had grown just like the feeling of her skin. She felt numb, a certain type of fear that she didn’t’ know was possible. He gave her a little wave as he exited the lot. She watched his red taillights in the cloudy morning light- evil and brimming over with malice.

Declan was suddenly next to her, pulling one of the coffees from her grasp. “You going to stand out here forever?”

“Oh, shove it.”

He raised his gloved hands in surrender, swiping his keycard and engulfing them in the sudden warmth of the building. She had lost all pension for the sugary drink in her grasp, setting it down in front of the receptionist, phone taut against her cheek as she accepted it gratefully. “Oh, Beca, Chief wants a word with you.”

She covered the receiver with the base of her palm, staring at the Disc Jockey. Her lips were painted an abrasive red and her eyes lined in thick shadow. Beca didn’t’ know how she could pull herself up so early, how she could look this good and put together. So much so that her words barely registered with Beca.

The Chief. Nina Blake- inheriting the company from her wealthy father. They pegged her from the start: Said that she was too pretty to run a radio station, had no business experience behind her. But it had been seven years and Nina Blake had put every terrible rumor to rest. Buried under feet of dirt and eaten to the bone.

She was one of the few people who scared Beca, her heels clicking against the linoleum was a signal of fight or flight. A warning that pouring sugar into her coffee was way more exciting than whatever warpath Nina had conjured for the day. She was never summoned to the cave, dripping with freshly spun webs.

“Okay, thank you.” Beca broke the long silence before she turned and walked towards the office that loomed at the end of the long hallway. There were large posters of the different morning shows- Kelley Ricus in the Morning, Late Nights with Anthony Thunder. And lastly, The Mitchell and Wolfe Show.

She hated that picture, hated the abrasive red background and the way her back was pressed so tightly with Declan’s. His dumb smile and her forced annoyance. There were billboards plastered around the city and at one point on the side of a rather large building. But still, it was this particular photo that perturbed her the most.

Beca gave a timid knock on the door, but it echoed louder than she had intended in the first place. There was a heavyset ‘come in’ that moved right back. Nina Blake had a phone pressed to her ear, just like the receptionist, and a file open in front of her. Her pitch hair was falling in ringlets around perfectly olive skin. Her forest green eyes gave nothing in the way of mercy.

She gestured for her to come in and close the door behind her. Beca felt like she was the fly in a web of sticky silk like it clung to her and plastered her to one place so Nina Blake could sink her poison dripped fangs right into her jugular. She did as she was told.

“Just the person I wanted to talk to, make yourself comfortable.”

Sure, that’s what she said to all of the flies that had ceased buzzing and accepted their fate. Beca still sat up straight with her nails digging into the uncomfortable leather chair that squeaked every single time she moved.

“Okay, Beca you know everyone here at MER9 loves you. Loves everything that you and Declan have done for us.” She took a steadying breath like she was composing herself before swinging the double-edged sword. “But we think that taking some time off will be good for you.”

Beca stuttered through her words “I’m sorry, I’m not understanding?”

“A sabbatical paid of course. To put things lightly, Beca, a camp tragedy thirteen years ago might have been good ratings at first- but now it’s just like a broken record. One that is clearly taking it’s toll on you and your family. We want you to take some time off.”

“What about our time slot, and Declan?” She asked the beast, not mindful of the venom.

“For the time being, we’ll move Anthony’s slot and play reruns of your show in his.”

Nina Blake was being tender with her words, though she had the funeral expression. The one where they tilt their head slightly to the side and force some type of moisture to cloud their iris’s. Beca wasn’t buying it but she didn’t dare question the owner of the station.

“Okay,” She whispered, barely audible. “I’ll um, get out of your hair then.”

She didn’t’ give the woman any time to scrounge up the laces of an apology. She instead stood from the cavern, shook off the clinging webs as the poison worked its acid touch through her veins- and walked from the office. Past the shitty posters that were too altered to be real, and back into the cold and cloudy day. Her breath shuttering as she pulled in the wet air.

The detective had left, and she considered that a blessing. His old car had sputtered all the way to the Magnolia Inn, where he would crawl into a quilted bed after a long and warm shower to quell his numb skin. Then he would study her, study her on the back of a map that he had tacked to the inside of the wardrobe. Little red strands of thread akin to the spider webs she had just tramped through.

Beca walked in even strides to her car and didn’t bother flicking on the engine before she started to cry. It wasn’t something she did often- not in the teaming face of death, and not when she had lost her first job after a rock with a threatening message was shattered through the back window. But this? This suspension that was more than likely indefinite scared her. Stirred the pot of security she had boiled up for her. For Chloe. For the people she considered family.

The tears were warm as they dripped past her chin and her breath pushed out in little puffs. Her fingers had a death grip on the steering wheel. She told herself to get it together, that she had been through worse. That Detective Dan Miller wasn’t that scary, and Neither was Nina Blake. The scary thing was the uncertainty, not the two looming figures that had spurred it. 

Three taps muted against her windowpane.

Beca threw her whole body back against the leather seat, clenching her jaw to the point of a dull ache, her arms straightened to their full extent. She cursed herself for not driving to another parking lot to lose it. The last person she wanted to see was Declan, with his well-intention, but smug, face.

Slowly she opened her eyes and glanced out of her side window. It wasn’t Declan or another detective with a SWAT team. No, it was Aubrey Posen. Bundled up unnecessarily against the cold. Her unripe eyes were rimmed in red and her hand still raised like she would knock a few more times.

Beca hadn’t seen her in years. Not in person. Of course, she had seen broadcasts and posters. The constant advertisements for her new and thrilling novel- and now a movie. A movie she hadn’t been consulted about but couldn’t be angry about either. It was life, it was strategic. She rolled down the window, welcoming the cold and the leathery scent Aubrey offered up. Neither said anything for a short while.

“Hi Beca,” She breathed.

“Aubrey,”

“We need to talk.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I've been gone for a bit- and this is not the best chapter, but I'm still adjusting to a new job and will probably revise this later. But right now, this is what I've got- so let me know what you think!

**Emily always walked** slowly down the docks. Like the wood under her feet would splinter and she would fall through to sopping pluff mud and shards of clam beds. When she was younger- she had. There was no hole or poor craftsmanship. She had leaned too far over the railing against her mother's warnings. 

She remembers the feeling of falling and the feeling of landing even more. It had knocked the wind from her lungs and that scared her more than the stinging pain that punched holes into her back. Because suddenly, she couldn’t breathe, and when she could, it was nothing but salt and the crunch of sand between clenched teeth. 

Her back was covered for weeks. The clinging feeling of a bandage being wrapped around her midsection suffocatingly close to her ribs, making that breathless feeling return with a vengeance. But that was temporary, and she considered the same of raging storms that dug their yellowed fangs into the shores of Maine. 

The sky would darken to an algae green as the setting sun reflected behind thin clouds. She stared at them mildly now, noticing the way the wind picked up and forced the dry feeling of salt against her skin. She conceded to pulling in all of the chairs on the deck and pushing the lights off the hooks so a fragile bulb wouldn’t shatter ungracefully. 

Emily needed a drink. Her skin was buzzing and clammy- for that- she would blame the storm. Not the lack of alcohol in her fridge. Not the fact that she didn’t finish the warm frothy liquid in the bottom of an amber bottle that was left by her kitchen sink. She gave it one wiff and scowled away from its pungent odor. 

The Rusted Hook was her chosen shelter to ride out the choppy tides and gale-force winds. She would sit attentively and watch whatever Rafael could get a good signal on. Sipping away at two, maybe three, beers to make her world just fuzzy enough to forget. Because fuzzy was better than dark and jaded. 

Emily shoved her keys into her pocket as she dropped evenly onto the docks. She felt one drop, then two, land against her shirt and soak through the wicked fabric. Emily stared up at the gray against navy and scoffed. It was a cold and cruel rain, strong enough for her to keep a brisk stride. 

There were yellowed circles of lights every four paces that illuminated her way, but her fingers itched to grasp at her cell phone and turn on the flashlight that it wielded. Instead, she kept her composure about her. The wind picked up and so did the rain, pellets of plastic digging into her skin, she hissed under the pressure. 

“Hey! Can I get some help over here!” 

Emily halted, boots testing the endurance of the old docks. She wasn’t too far from her own boat. Not even away from the West End. She hadn’t passed the iron sign held by sea stung poles. A hook that allowed fishermen to smile broadly with their catch stretching the expanse of their body. The voice was coming from behind her. 

There was an old vessel, the Siren, that needed more work than hers, one lot up and over from her own boat- Emily considered this stretch of wood her own. The old couple that owned it wasn’t interested in selling and had taken a trip to Europe more than two years ago. It rotted and bobbed on the water- but it was never in use. She was alone- usually, alone. 

“This storm is something fierce, please!” 

She shouldn’t have, the pit in her stomach that formed like a molten hot piece of lava told her not to. And the way her mouth filled up with a metallic taste akin to blood raised a white flag like a fire-stained cloth- yet, despite the heat of her skin, that made mist rise around her.  _ Emily turned around.  _

At the end of the docks, she saw a man- someone with broad shoulders and a tall build. Emily was always picked first in basketball, always recruited to help the prom committee with hanging signs. She traded lockers, and took down ceiling tiles ready to be replaced with the help of a chair- but he was tall, he had inches on her and it made her ears ring. 

He wore a slate gray coat that had been darkened to a near black in the rain that picked up its havoc, even more, his hood raised over indistinguishable features. The man stood at the bow of The Siren. She couldn’t see his pleading stare but felt the panic in the air. Not quite sure if it was her own, or his. 

Emily Junk pulled back her shoulders and started walking towards him, cursing herself. If she had some alcohol in her system the guilt wouldn’t be so domineering. But it buzzed like a trapped fly- and every part of her figured she owed the karma Gods something. 

“What’s going on with your boat?” She hollered over the rain as she got closer. He towered over her, hands in his pockets. 

Emily still kept her distance. Staring at the screaming carcass of the Siren. It shook violently, but she focused more on the man. The way his shoulders slumped more to the left than the right. It made his large frame look wonky. Still, she saw his hands clench in his pockets. 

And he laughed- loud and cackling like the hiss of a flooded engine. 

Naive, she had been naive and generous, and part of her had gotten closer for the morbid curiosity swirling around her sanity. Was he real? Had he been nothing but a mirage in her damaged psyche - She felt too damn much like her old self. Because he didn’t feel much like a man who needed help. The hairs on her arms stood up on end, even as cold rain-water dripped off her fingertips. Emily took a stumbled step back. 

She thought of an old PSA that they used to play every single year at orientation. They would heard a bunch of sun-soaked teenagers into a gymnasium with waxy wood floors and nets that had been lifted slightly, their backs spotless plexiglass. Emily fondly remembers the scent of sunscreen, sweat, and tobacco mixing as they carried on up until the television flickered to life. 

“You never trust a stranger-” A crackly version of Michael J. Fox wearing his blue and yellow varsity jacket leaned against a brick wall. “Even if you think you know this person, you probably don’t. So stick with people you do!” 

He was entirely too peppy to be talking about possible abduction. But Emily found it charming then and wished she heeded the warnings now. As the man withdrew his right hand from his pocket and stretched his fingers greedily around the rubber handle of a knife. The blade stretched the length of her forearm, speckled with rust and glimmering so sharply that it could cut drops of rain in two. 

“Oh, fuck me.” Emily whispered. 

The man lifted the blade, bringing it back down with a quick recession- Emily’s fingers forming around his wrist, touch numb from the cold as she held him at bay, the very tip of the weapon mere centimeters from her collarbone. Her efforts shook as he pushed his entire weight into his attempt. 

She wanted to yell for help, wanted to shout and cry out while she sprinted towards the nearest person who would listen. Every single part of her wanted to hide behind someone bigger and stronger than she was. But she couldn’t- her arms were burning like a blazing fire had eaten her bone marrow. 

Emily lifted her foot and slammed the tip of her boot as hard as she possibly could into her attackers' shin. she felt a pop and prayed it wasn’t the old material and instead bone. By the way, he crumpled and moaned in agony- she figured she struck gold. 

She felt the tear of her jacket, and then her shirt, and then skin. Through her shoulder, a swift downward motion and feeble attempt to wound her. To slow her down. Emily could feel every inch of the blade ripping through flesh, slicing clumsily.

Emily took another step back, the tip pushing further down as it splintered the docks under his motion. He held onto it, on one knee, almost as if it were a cane. 

Rain stung against whatever exposed skin she allowed. She sprinted, ran until her chest burned like her throat- like she had screamed out of pure pain and adrenaline. But she didn’t remember hearing it over the downpour. Blood seeped warmly against her arm in a rustic and diluted orange- and she cursed herself. 

She didn’t stop running until she knew he wouldn’t follow her. Until she was in her tuck at the end of the lot. Her keys still clenched in her hand, stopping her from shaking entirely. She didn’t bother to turn on the heat or start the engine at all- eyes trained on the mirrors, three of them giving her a good look at the dock she had just marathoned. 

But it was entirely empty. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Road Trip! Road Trip! Road Trip!

**Emily felt like** she was back in her third-grade science fair. All eyes on her as the automatic doors to the hospital waiting room slid open- creaking and groaning. She would fold her hands in front of her waist and smile innocently next to a trifold poster slathered in green paint. Just waiting for the judges to come around with their doll pencils and glasses against the tip of their noses.

There was no one here, however. No one other than a plastic nurse sitting behind the front desk. She was staring down at her phone, leaned back in her chair as the computer shaded her features. It was a Wednesday night, time pushing on. 

She had used what was in her car to fasten first aide to the wound on her shoulder. A few paper towels and duct tape that was in the glove box. The metallic scent of blood was radiating off of her and her skin buzzed in pain. Most of it had soaked through her stint, some dripping into her jacket and staining the fabric entirely.

“Hi, how can I help you?” The girl glanced up, clicking her phone off. Her eyes flashed towards the wound, and her smile faltered, but didn’t vanish.

“I’m looking for doctor Beale,” Emily said, the words like acid in her mouth.

“Oh,” The girl glanced towards her screen, hitting a few key. “Is she expecting you?” 

Emily swallowed thickly and nodded, pressing her palm against the gash. She wanted to hiss painfully, but instead bit her tongue, as if not to scare the receptionist. She was told to wait, and focused on flexing her fingers into a fist- it felt foreign.

Moments later, a set of double-doors that were code protected pushed open softly, the air in the hospital waiting room changed and Emily straightened her posture as much as she could without wincing. Chloe Beale took in the scene in front of her, frowning for a moment before lilting her head to the side like a curious dog.

She wore a white lab coat over a pair of jeans and a sweater, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. Chloe had a nametag that read _Lizzie. _Her eyes were young and full of life. “Emily,” She spoke evenly. 

The receptionist searched the doctors’ face, wary of her decision, fingers itching to grasp at the phone that rested to her left. There was an extension for security and every part of Emily wished she wouldn’t quickly punch the numbers. Chloe might let her.

“Come on back,” She relented “We can look at that arm of yours.”

The tension seemed to drain from the room instantly, but Emily’s fingers still shook as she followed Chloe into the bleak hallway. Long and stretching, and undeniably white. The disinfectant burned her lungs and played into the silence. She worried about dripping blood against something so pristine.

Emily hadn’t seen Chloe for years- not like she had Beca, though, that was stagnated itself. There were the billboards and pictures against the side of a city bus that made the rounds. Her calming voice would leak through the radios speakers, and Emily oddly felt like she hadn’t lost touch with her as much as she had with the other girls. Chloe was a stranger, a stranger with a medical license.

She led Emily into a room off to the side of the main hallway, not behind a cheap plastic curtain. There was an exam table pushed up against the back wall, and a light frame to view x-rays. Chloe instantly moved to the sink at the counter and washed her hands in cold water, not bothering with the red handle. Emily instinctively sat on the table, she crossed her ankles and the paper crinkled.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Chloe asked, not turning around.

“Is there some doctor-patient confidentiality?”

Chloe scoffed and pulled on a pair of purple latex gloves. They looked almost blue against the color of her eyes. The older woman studied her, distilled blood dripping and clothes soaked through to the bone. Emily looked uncharacteristically unlike the child she remembers- soft and full of wonder. 

Emily swallowed roughly and looked at her feet for a moment. “I was attacked down at the docks.”

Chloe drew in a sharp and toned breath as she moved closer to the girl, lulling her into pulling her jacket off. Emily nearly shook as the wound stung and buzzed in pain. She hadn’t yet looked at it- and Chloe took in the makeshift stint she fastened. “By someone you know?” She asked.

“No, I don’t think so. He was big, needed help with his boat, and then suddenly he’s digging a rusty steak knife, or hook- or something, into my shoulder.”

Chloe was quiet as she pulled at the tape. The wound burned and itched as open-air hit it. It was studied like a book for a moment before she grasped a bottle of alcohol and flipped it against a cotton pad. “You need stitches, and a tetanus shot.”

Emily whispered voice slight. “Okay.”

Her body tensed as the pad was pressed against her skin and the alcohol worked its way through the caked blood. Her fingers dug into the parchment paper. It made her jaw ache and her ears ring but she kept her composure.

“I want to believe that it wasn’t planned.” She finally said as Chloe worked.

“You think it is?”

“I’ve sat at the same seat at the same end of a half-beat bar for the past six years. I order the same drink and sit and think for the same amount of time I always do. But last week, someone ordered me a drink. It was called a hit and run.”

Chloe pressed down the cap of the numbing medicine until it clicked, the sound deafening in the silence. “Was there a note?”

“Written on a napkin in red ink.” She took a deep breath as Chloe started the sutures, feeling little pinches here and there, but never the pain that she expected. She was gentle and calculated. “I didn’t think much of it. A sick joke, maybe. People know who I am, but after Aubrey showed up at the docks”

“Aubrey is here in town?” Chloe stopped entirely. “You’ve seen her.”

“She showed up at my boat, demanded that we talk because someone left a message on her mirror in a dressing room.”

The doctor let out a labored sigh and snipped away the edges of the suture she had just fastened. She placed the sticky side of a bandage over the gash. “So we’re all in the same city now, all of us targeted by notes that we’re too stubborn to believe have any credence, and now you’ve been attacked?”

Emily furrowed her brow and stared at the woman. All four of them had gotten something, and every part of her was feeling like this was less of a joke and more of an intense attack that would draw them out like mice and a sweaty slice of cheese. One of them stupid enough to grasp at it and hear the snap of a trap.

“Strength in numbers, I suppose.”

“Or a bigger target to hit.” Chloe rustled around with the tools she had just used to stitch Emily up, the crackled like a fizzing firework. “We’ve lived without consequence for thirteen years. In a way, I was expecting it.”

“Yeah, but from whom, Chloe? I don’t need to remind you that everyone from the camp has been handled.”

Chloe gripped both sides of the metal tray next to the exam table. She tried not to pay attention to the blood coated instruments, or the cotton that had been soaked through to the point of black. Strawberry hair fell into stormy eyes that looked like choppy seas. “How much do you remember of the drive to the hospital that night?”

“Not much,”

Emily remembers the numbing cold, the kind that started at her fingertips and slowly pulled at her skin until there was nothing anymore. Part of her recalls Aubrey’s touch, stroking the side of her face and whispering that everything would be okay. She had been going in and out of consciousness, eyes blinking to the passing streetlamps as they pulled into a town she didn’t know the name of.

“It started raining after we left the camp. In sheets, that made everything look gray. It was so hard to see and that car… that stupid car didn’t’ have much power to it. I couldn’t see, Emily.” Her hands shook, and so did the table.

Emily knew all of this, had picked up pieces and had talked to Aubrey before everything crumbled away beneath them. She thinks she remembers an argument and the sound of the rain against the car. The sound of a body, bigger and more laden than that of her own, rolling over the hood.

“Nothing else mattered in that moment. Not the scent of blood in the backseat, or how cold my hands felt. Not the fact that I had edged so close to death, because, in that moment, I caused it. I caused it and I drove away as if nothing was wrong.”

Emily clenched her jaw as she slid her jacket back over her left arm, draping the heavy, wet fabric over the right. “What if you didn’t?”

“But I did, I drove away.”

“No, not driving away, Chloe. What if you didn’t kill who you hit? He was still, but so were you.”

She pulled back from the tray and it let out one more rattle against her movement. And she stared, stared at the girl in front of her like she had grown two more heads on her shoulders. The thought had never occurred to her- that much, Emily could tell plainly. “You’ve taken on the guilt of murder for years, when you never saw the body. Never saw anything about him in the news.”

“I don’t even have a name, Emily.”

The younger girl hopped down from the exam table, her boots squeaking against the linoleum. Her socks were wet and feet cold despite the warmth of the room. “No, but you have a town. Norton Falls, two hours East.”

Chloe scoffed, peeling the purple latex gloves from her fingers. She flexed them as if they were new. “Say we go to Norton Falls, what is to come of it?”

“Nothing, probably- but at the very least we can rule out the likely answer. I’ve seen enough shitty horror movies to know that the bad guy, the person we think is the bad guy, always has one ounce of life left in him.”

“Fine. We leave tomorrow morning.” Chloe relented, pulling her shoulders back. “Don’t be late.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry, but I needed to take a little bit of a break. I'm all for writing all the time but sometimes you need to switch it up a little bit and move to a different fandom. Anyway, let me know what you think!

**Chloe drove a** minivan with DVD players strapped to the headrests; it was a cream color and rumbled something fierce when you first started it up. It never screeched like Emily’s truck did weathered by seawater and the constantly changing temperatures that Maine had to offer up.

She kept a CD book filled with the latest Disney movies and a few older classics in the center console of the car. In a way, it was almost comforting and oh so domestic. She was a successful doctor and a strong leader; and she probably baked lemon squares late into the night when one of her children forgot tell her a fundraiser was the next day.

On all accounts, Chloe Beale had everything put together.

But Emily knew better. Emily watched the way her fingers tightened around the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white like snow. How her hair was pulled back into a messy bun and how she chewed her lip until it slowly bleeds into a crimson mess.

There was something inside of Chloe that Emily felt like it was written against the fogged up windshield. She reached forward and flicked on the defrosters, her headlights sweeping against the edges of trees, branches stretched as if they were dead fingers searching for life. The sun hadn’t even rise and Emily scrunched herself further into the passenger seat that was far too large, hood pulled over messy hair.

“What?” Chloe asked, retreating her touch.

Emily hadn’t realized she was staring so intently, but she had been. She had lived alone for so long on that boat that no one cared if you gawked too long because no one else was around. Part of her had forgotten her manners and she silently scolded herself for it.

“You were wearing a nametag yesterday. Lizzie.”

“You have a keen eye.”

“I notice things, is all. I thought at first you were having some sort of identity crisis or something- and then I thought no, because Chloe Beale didn’t go through all those years of medical school to take her name away from it all.” Emily stared out the passenger window and watched as her breath fogged up the glass. “You don’t want anyone to know who you are.”

Chloe pressed down on the gas a little harder and Emily stared as the speed limit sign went up a few notches. It whizzed by in a white blur, almost so fast that she nearly missed it. The heat was ratting in the cab of the van, wheezing like it had been restored but not to its full extent.

“I had a residency in Pennsylvania, fresh out of med school. It was a dingy little clinic in the heart of a city that had a weird obsession with cigars. The whole place reeked of tobacco because of a factory that made them- right down the street. But none of that little stuff mattered, I was excited to actually get out there and get my hands dirty.”

Emily turned to watch her again, she frowned at the road.

“The first few weeks were fine, I was condemned to grunt work, of course. Different sutures and a couple of rectal exams, things that interns usually do. But after a while my attending… God he was a stout little man, he started to get this weird obsession with me. He would ask me out for drinks at a pub down the street. Nearly every night I would say no, that I had work to do.”

Chloe took in a shaky breath, her jaw clenching until Emily’s own teeth ached. “I guess one night he had enough because he searched up my name and found everything about me. By that point Aubrey had published her first book, so it wasn’t so much of a secret anymore. Even with the fake names and location changes and whatever she threw in there to make herself sleep at night.

“The other interns got wind of it, and started to pull mean pranks. Writing on bathroom mirrors in blood and shoving hairdryers into my locker with ominous notes. Terrible stuff that let them blow off steam, I mean God, part of me understood it. But it didn’t stop me from being afraid.”

“That’s so cruel, Chloe, I’m sorry.”

Emily remembered how people used to apologize to her before she could even speak. They would lilt their head to the side and get this soft look in their eyes that was just beyond the veil of judgment. Because none of them could imagine going through what she had, and that was sad. But it was also an oddity that was easy to poke at with a stick.

Chloe swallowed roughly, the lump in her throat not as easy to beat down. She had relaxed into her seat a bit, but her knuckles were still a sickly yellow; getting brighter as the sun slowly rose. “I transferred to a hospital in Baltimore after a few months, and I started to go by my middle name. People didn’t question me after that and I guess some part of me got used to not being the same teenage girl that somehow is still alive today.”

“I get that,” She adjusted herself in her seat, watching as another sign whizzed passed, they were close to Norton Falls, fifteen miles before the small coastal town pulled into view. “I tried the whole normal life thing- like really tried, but I was sick of people staring.”

Chloe nodded solemnly but didn’t say anything; not as they passed through the threshold of Norton Falls. Those large green oak trees that Emily remembered were dying in the autumn cold, an odd hash of red and yellows and sickeningly stark browns. The houses weren’t like she remembered either.

Some were boarded up with wet plywood, others left to the elements as dark ivy scaled the chipped paint and broken shutters. Chloe held her breath as her minivan rumbled on. She had shut off the GPS and opted for hand-painted signs that directed them towards main street.

“God, it looks kind of like a war zone.” Emily murmured. “I wonder what happened.”

“Bad economy, I’m guessing. More crime.”

She seemed to accept that as an answer. The car rolled to a stop in a nearly empty parking lot. Rusted letters that probably shone a deep gold at one point, spelled out _NORTON FALLS LIBRARY. _

“The Library, really?”

“Well, what else are we supposed to do? If we start poking around with the locals then we’ll really be in some hot water.”

The two of them exited the car and ascended the steps towards the building. The bricks had been washed and weathered, dark fliers that were water damaged were stapled against the one corkboard that sat right before the entrance. The ink had run to the point that they were useless and Emily felt an odd type of fear bubble up in her stomach.

Her theory had been a stupid one, and the idea about coming all the way here was right up there with it.

Every library was the same as the one she had her afterschool program in, and begrudgingly, a carbon copy of the one in San Francisco that she attended a single Alcoholics anonymous in. There were stretching shelves and the scent of aged paper, and an older woman dwarfed behind the desk with her nose buried in a romance novel.

More obnoxiously there was a cardboard cutout of Aubrey Posen positioned next to a large shelf dedicated to her novels. The cheap paper version loomed over the two of them and Emily couldn’t deny her pension for wanting to whack it, so she shoved her hands into her pockets instead and let Chloe do the talking.

“Excuse me,” She spoke timidly, not at all as a doctor should. The woman lifted her eyes accusingly “We were wondering if you kept old articles here.”

The woman leaned forward and her chair groaned. Chloe had officially piqued her interest in the question. They didn’t look the type to ask, Chloe in her pristine sweater and Emily pulling the sleeves of her sweatshirt past her wrists like they were weighted.

“We have a lot more than that. Ever since the city hall shut down last June we’ve got public records too. What are you ladies looking for exactly?”

“News about an accident,”

“What kind of accident?” The librarian cocked a brow. “Not many happen in Norton Falls.”

That ruled out the crime rate that Chloe had put so much faith in before and the woman began to sweat. A sheen more than noticeable in the low lights of the library. Emily could lie and she could lie well but when the guilt wasn’t pulling evasion of the truth close to Chloe she tended to stumble. A name was one thing but a story? Why were they here?

Emily finally spoke up, “It was a car accident in the late 80’s, my associate here is doing a medical study on the effects that a high impact situation can have on the human body. You know, for safety precautions. This is the closest place that had a pedestrian involved. Right, Chlo?”

The librarian stared at them with prying eyes, but part of Emily knew she was searching for the memory; anything from the hold up of traffic on a long winding road to a newscaster with suitcases under her eyes standing, whitewashed, in front of caution tape. Chloe simply nodded and let go of the breath that she clenched.

She turned wordlessly to the large monitor in front of her and typed, the blue tint of the screen highlighting her grimace. “Oh, dear. Yes, it says right here that there was a hit and run fifteen miles out of town. A pedestrian, he succumbed to his injuries on the way to the hospital.”

“In the ambulance?” Chloe gripped the glossy counter and leaned forward despite herself.

The woman glanced her way before squinting at the tiny words and moving closer. She had a pair of glasses hanging from a beaded lanyard but didn’t make any moves to put them on. “No one ever called 911 but the closest payphone was in town anyway. It says here that a civilian picked him up and tried to rush him there but he was in bad condition by the time they reached the bay- I’m sorry what does this have to do with high impact situations?”

“Just double-checking the facts.” Emily frowned and quieted her voice “I suppose medical records would be at Norton Memorial, then.”

“For an accident that old? No, they’d be here. Damned with the old restriction laws, all the patients who were brought in for that stuff lost their rights as soon as they died.” She pushed away from the desk before walking towards the back of the building- Emily shrugged and followed wordlessly. “That sure is tragic though. Where are you practicing, dear?”

The question was directed at Chloe. She had been milling her thoughts over, but snapped her attention to the librarian in a quick moment. “oh, um, Bangor Medical Center.”

“Bangor, that’s such a big city. They don’t have any cases there?”

“No, not many,” Emily responded quickly as they were lead into a back room separated from the rest of the library. It was old and smelled like mold. There were a few shelves with aged town registries and maps protected in plastic. The librarian went straight to the puke green filing cabinets and shuffled through the manila folders.

She let out a little yelp of satisfaction when she found what she was looking for. It was a stack of a few newspapers, water damaged and faded. Behind that was a medical report that made Chloe’s eyes twinkle in excitement. Then three more sheets of collected statements.

“You girls be careful with all of this now, it’s practically history.”

They both nodded and watched as the woman returned to her desk and picked up her book once more. She was entirely focused and didn’t seem to look up at the sound of the bell. They couldn’t see who had walked in, but didn’t particularly care, either.

Chloe pulled open the folder and went straight to the report while Emily tackled the yellowed newspaper. The small article was buried next to the classifieds and highlighted for the subject matter. It was the same old story:

_A John Doe, aged 54 by local coroner Laurie Strode, was found on highway six right outside of Norton Falls (POP: 1200). The man was struck with a moving vehicle and taken to Norton Memorial on the night of June 17th, 1989. He succumbed to his injuries moments after arrival and has not been claimed by family or friends as of August 25th 1989\. _

“He died from internal bleeding.” Chloe mumbled dejectedly “Blunt force trauma to the back of the head and lacerations to his midsection. I’m surprised he even made it to the hospital.”

Emily wanted to say that it eased her guilt; knowing that even if they stayed, he would have died from his injuries right there in the middle of the street. That they both would have lost their lives on one rain-soaked July night if Aubrey hadn’t told Chloe to drive.

She nodded and moved past the blatant retelling of the story to a small sheet of paper. It was another newspaper clipping from Goldfinch's funeral home. The John Doe was buried in the only cemetery in town, an unmarked grave in a south lot.

Emily glanced up at the librarian and then the only other person in the library. Her stomach clenched and her palms moistened. Sidney Jane Taylor looked like a creature of the undead; so pale and shaky from whatever coffee she had downed. She had only met the publicist once in the past five years and that was during a meeting about the first book; the one that skyrocketed Aubrey’s career.

“Oh, fuck me,” Emily growled, shoving the small piece of newspaper into her front pocket before yanking the medical report away from Chloe and closing the folder. “Come on, we have to go”

“What are you-“Chloe lost the acidity in her voice the second her eyes met with Sidney.

They had been spotted and neither of them could afford getting caught digging through this. The agent got a devilish glint in her eyes before she abandoned her conversation with the librarian and started to stride through the stacks of books.

Chloe wasted no time shoving the folder into the same filing cabinet that they had found it in and slamming it shut. She struggled to look as casual as possible all while Emily couldn’t hide the glare that edged her features.

“How odd running into the two of you here” Sidney beamed.

And god, did Emily hate her; the way she wore a blazer despite being in such a tiny town, and how she had a cell phone holstered against her waist like it was a pistol ready to draw. Sidney screamed slimy, but she figured it was fair when representing someone like Aubrey Posen.

“We just took a little day trip, sometimes you have to get out of the city.” Chloe’s voice was light and Emily wondered where this bullshit was when they were at the front desk. “We were actually just leaving.”

“Oh, I would hardly call Bangor a city. The two of you should make the trip to Los Angeles sometime. I’m sure Aubrey would love to have you.”

“I’m sure Aubrey would love to have a lot of things that don't belong to her. And what exactly are you doing in our neck of the woods?” Emily spoke through gritted teeth. “Did you come to drag your pet back to the West Coast?”

Sidney laughed, something bitter like a cherry with the pit still wedged in the middle. “No, not at all, you know, when Aubrey left me a voicemail saying she was going back home for a few weeks I thought she had finally lost it. But Maine is charming. I think it’ll actually be good for her creative side.”

Emily could feel her discomfort mounting and Chloe put a comforting hand on the small of her back, pressing down hard as she took a step forward. “Well, it was nice to see you again, Sidney. Give Aubrey our best.”

The woman lifted her chin and her smile faulted. She had come chasing down a lead that she wasn’t going to catch. Any hopes of her client convincing the rest of them to agree to talk-shows and red carpet appearances had been dashed.

The two of them squeezed past Sidney and walked quickly from the library like their heels were being held over an open flame. Emily resisted the urge to rip the head from a stupid cardboard cutout and the woman who was leading the parade; both were considered far too messy.

“I swear to God, one of these day’s I’m going to take those designer shoes and shove them so far up her ass-“

“Emily,”

Chloe had stopped in the parking lot, turning the face the taller girl with her arms crossed her over the chest. “Believe me, there is nothing I’d love to do more than watch that woman choke on her own business cards. But we have bigger fish to fry, yeah?”

She let out a growl and glanced back at the library. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and for the second time today, Emily wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Aubrey had messaged her: _We need to talk. Now. _

“Yeah,” She sighed, shoving the phone into Chloe’s hands “We do.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I do want to put a bit of trigger warning on this one. There is a very brief mention of S*icide. If that's triggering to anyone please skip this one. I know it's a bit of a dark subject and I'll briefly recap this chapter at the start of the next update for anyone who needs it. Let me know what you think, and as always, stay safe.

**It had started** to rain by the time Beca Mitchell had registered the woman tapping on her window. A light drizzle at first had wet Aubrey’s hair until it was tangled and stringy, but still, all Beca did was stare, tempted to reach out and touch the girl, to make sure she was real and she hadn’t watched a tape that gave her exactly seven days to live before culminating into this.

Eventually, feeling returned to her fingers and her breath started to steady. She opened her car door and closed it again quickly. She could have invited Aubrey in and turned on the heat. The two of them could have caught up over a cup of cheap coffee and whatever pie was leftover at the diner. Instead- they stood in the rain, each drop working its way to her bones, staining them with bleach.

Aubrey was taller than she remembers, but sadder too. She looked tired and cold and more than anything, defeated. Not like the woman who sat opposite television hosts with her legs crossed at the ankles and a copy of her book propped up between the two. She was a liaison, speaking on behalf of them all, but now, she seemed not to have the words to do so.

“When did you get back into town?”

“We can skip the small talk Beca.” She shoved her hands into her coat.

She supposed that they could, her mind was still swirling with discomfort and an odd form of anger. Beca Mitchell had been softly let go, and she had half the mind to waltz back into that station and give the executive a hard time. But she wouldn’t do that- because at the end of the day there was still a chance that this wasn’t all over.

“Why are you here, then?” Beca walked around the back of her car, she ignored the feeling of dirt that had built up despite the rain. Her arms ached and Aubrey watched her with unmatched curiosity as she opened her trunk. “Did you give up on the big time so easily?”

Beca shed her blazer and threw it into the back of her car. Instead, she grabbed one of the folded boxes that had been there since she started staying at Chloe’s more often than not. She wrestled with the object until it was ready to be filled.

“No, but it looks like you are.” Aubrey shook her head as if to clear it “I know you got a message too. So did Chloe. I tried talking to Emily at the docks but she wasn’t interested.”

The shorter woman went sullen for a moment, contemplating her options. She was angry at Aubrey too, but she couldn’t fault the woman for wanting something out of the ordeal that they all went through. Aubrey’s voice cracked when she said Emily’s name and her eyes grew stormy like the sky above them.

Beca slammed her trunk down and tucked the box under her arm. She walked with intention, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to walk towards her studio or away from Aubrey. The woman followed. She held the door open for Beca, who ignored the pained stare of the receptionist. She didn’t have the phone shoved against her ear this time, but she averted her stare to avoid Beca’s.

“Stupid pranks. Nothing more- this has been persisting since the day you wrote your first book.” Beca stopped short, right next to the cheesy poster of her and Declan. She wanted to hit the glass until her knuckles bleed. Aubrey ran into her shoulder. “Which, by the way, was mediocre at best.”

She ignored the insult and tested “Someone snuck into my dressing room, Beca. And that call? It’s all over the internet. That didn’t’ sound like someone trying to fuck with you. That was threatening.”

“I wouldn’t be shocked if your publicist hired a low-level actor.”

Beca turned again and walked the silent hallway towards the place that she spent most mornings and some nights. It was vacant now, the rerun of their show playing as a substitute. On any other day, she would be scrolling through twitter, looking at the random spurts of confusion and theories as to why they had taken a day off. But it wasn't any other day.

She wondered if she was being too hard on Aubrey Posen; the same woman who had always carried that same hunger and determination. After the countless interviews and the flashing red and blue lights- the two of them had an agreement; everything was forgotten.

Beca began to pull the door open, but Aubrey’s hand stopped her. She turned her back to the wooden surface. The woman towered over her, she smelled like the cheap shampoo that they would give you at hotels, filmy and so little. Beca breathed hard, staring into Aubrey’s acid eyes.

“Enough.” Her jaw was clenched, and beads of sweat sprinkled her forehead. “I’m sick of all of you blaming me for turning a profit. I fucked up, alright? We all have. But I’m telling you that _this_ is real.”

She was right. It left a rancid taste in Beca’s mouth, to agree with Aubrey. To recognize that the two of them could be in danger again, but she wondered dejectedly if that fear ever went away. Beca said nothing, she turned and opened the door to the studio. Aubrey followed her, closing it behind them.

She peered at the empty room that her producers would sit in, watching them carefully and directing calls. Their headphones hung against microphones that were cold and desolate. The ON AIR sign was flicked off. Beca started to clear her surroundings. 

“I don’t want to die.” Aubrey murmured, voice soft. “Not like this,”

“Like what, Bree?”

“At the mercy of our past.”

Beca moved a potted plant carefully into her box and looked up at her old enemy. The palms of her hands pressed hard on the table until they were an angry red, knuckles a comparative white. “Isn’t that how it’ll always be? I’ve always considered suicide, you know? Taking the same gun that I held to your head and putting it to mine.”

“Beca,”

“No, let me finish… I love Chloe more than anything, but she would work herself to death before acknowledging the fact that she’s trying to overcompensate for a mistake she made as a scared teenager. And Emily- fuck, Emily would bury herself at the bottom of a bottle if she didn't have her sponsor to keep her in check. And you, Aubrey.”

“I would what?”

She shrugged half-heartedly “Some part of me held out hope that you would make it to the end. That you would be the final girl because one of us had to. But now I’m not so sure. You’re just as afraid as the rest of us, aren’t you?”

Beca shoved a few CD’s into her box and scanned the rest of the area. There was nothing else for her to take. Nothing was hers- and some part of her knew that all along. Aubrey had grown quiet, but her steely stare moved to the sign behind Beca’s head. The neon red words reflected off the table and the DJ turned around herself, concern etched on her features.

“Are we on air?” Aubrey asked.

“No, that’s impossible.” She crossed the room and tried her hand at the door. It wouldn’t’ budge. She pulled hard, and yet, nothing. Beca moved to the glass window and tapped on it. “Real funny, Declan!” 

She pressed her face against the surface. Goosebumps rose close to her skin as she peered into the inky darkness. There was no one there, and if there were, she couldn’t see them. The sign flicked again, it’s buzz like a trapped fly.

Aubrey turned and tugged on the door. “Fuck. I don’t do well in small spaces, Beca.”

It was never bad; never this bad. She could fight off the anxieties if she sat at the end seat in an auditorium. If she rolled down the window in a private car the fresh air would cool her skin. But still; the idea of a closed shower curtain made her throat tighten. She would smell fire again, and gas, and anything toxic that would bubble in the pit of her stomach. Beca pulled away from the window and walked carefully to the microphones.

“Breathe, alright. I know this place like the back of my hand.”

“That’s not helping.”

Beca didn’t know how to help; what she did know, was this door had never had a lock and the only way to control the panels, and more importantly, the sign, was from the booth. Whoever was doing this was close by, watching them- enjoying the way Aubrey squirmed under their thumb.

She scanned the equipment once more, looking at the sullen monitors and the keypads that she longed to touch. Instead, she walked towards Aubrey and gripped her shoulders like a vice. Her fingers ached but she finally grabbed the woman’s attention.

“Listen carefully to me,” She whispered, “Someone is watching us. I need you to stay calm. The call button is blinking. I’m going to answer it.”

“What? No!”

“This is a game to them. They can’t win until we give in. That’s what I’m going to do.”

Before Aubrey could object, Beca clicked the small button as it flashed like Morse code that neither could decipher. The line crackled as if it were just a fluke wave of energy instead of an intended message. They both held their breath and the sign blinked once more. It’s hiss just as toxic as the one controlling it.

“I have a question for Beca.” It was a woman this time; her voice was gravelly. She took long pauses between her words like she wrote a script but couldn’t quite read her own handwriting. “Would you rather drown at the bottom of a lake, or be eaten alive by fire?”

Beca turned and looked almost helplessly towards Aubrey. The woman was shaking, her arms were tight around her midsection and she was looking rather green; no help in that department. She imagined two pills, one blue, and one red- and then she remembered the feeling of water filling her lungs. How numbing it was.

“Neither.” She answered sorely.

The woman on the other line scolded her “Now, now, that’s not one of your options. Fire or water, Beca?”

“I’m not answering your stupid fucking questions,” She hissed into the microphone.

The receiver crackled again, the sign that lit up the entire room started to hiss and contort as it’s color flicked on and off before repeating the process. She stepped away from the table as a loud and echoing song began to play- the same tune from Lita Ford that haunted her dreams moved at full volume from the speaker.

“FIRE OR WATER? FIRE OR WATER? FIRE OR WATER?”

The voice screamed over everything else, over the guitar riff and the drawn-out words that rang with death. Over the buzzing lights and the ringing in their heads. Aubrey cuffed her hands over her ears and screamed.

“Fire!” Beca cried out, “Fire!”

Everything stopped as quickly as it started. There were tears in her eyes and her throat was raw with emotion. She swallowed hard and tried to focus on something other than Aubrey’s sniffling. The line fizzled again.

“By bullet or arrow?”

This time she didn’t hesitate “Bullet.”

“Lethal injection, or hanging?”

“Hanging.”

“Good.” The voice praised her calmly “Would you rather be hit by a car, or be the one driving?”

Aubrey gripped her shoulder then, hard like she had done moments ago. The voice on the other end of the line was patient, but her breath was shallow. She was letting them know she was there. They both were.

“Driving.”

The line went dead. The sign faded away to its normal dark backing. They both stood in a weighted silence that felt like an eternity, but in reality, probably only lasted a few seconds. Aubrey tried the door and it clicked open, but neither made a move to exit.

Aubrey pulled out her phone and glanced at the screen “Did that feel like a prank to you?”

“No.” Beca didn’t feel much like answering any more questions, she wanted to grab the little plastic trashcan that usually contained gum they had ditched before the show and old coffee cups. She wanted to throw up. “What do we do now?” 

“We have to go to Norton Falls.”

She ran her fingers through her hair, feeling the stinging pressure on her scalp “why?”

Her fingers were still shaking, but she shoved them into her pants pockets. If Aubrey had noticed, she didn’t say anything. There was still mucus under her nose, she hadn’t wiped it away yet and her eyes were rimmed in sadness.

Aubrey sighed and lifted her phone; it took a moment for Beca’s vision to focus, she realized that Chloe and Emily had the same reckless and stupid idea that they did.


End file.
